Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

“I wasn’t toasting, you fucktard.”

He lowered the glass. “Oh. What’s that, then?”

“What do you say we finish the job, get all those DVDs back? We find out who bought the videos from Sid, and we burn the DVDs in a big-ass bonfire?”

“Only if I can hurt the pervs. Lots.”

“Oh, lots and lots.”

“Joy.”

Junior went home, and I continued my search for God. I closed the bar and extended my search for The Almighty all the way into the bottom of a Beam bottle. I might have seen Moses in the peanut bowl, but I might just as easily have been fucked up. A jingle of keys at the front door stirred me from my religious questings.

“Mr. Boo,” Luke said with his usual reserved cheer. “You look nice tonight. What you get all dressed up for? You have yourself a date?”

“Had a funeral, Luke. Friend of mine died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Boo. It wasn’t that young girl, was it? The daughter of Mr. Donnelly?”

“As a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?”

“Saw a picture on your desk a while back. Saw her picture in the newspaper. Just made a guess.” Luke clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly, leaning on the ratty mop he’d pulled out of the utility closet. “Shame a young girl like that goes when there’s so many people who’ve lived their lives and wait, sick, for their turn to meet Jesus.” He said it like he was waiting on that day himself.

I nodded. “I just can’t figure out the whys of it anymore, Luke. I mean, I don’t know. I just can’t figure out the why.”

Luke sighed and looked off into a distance beyond the peeling lead paint on the walls. “Sometimes life goes wrong, Mr. Boo. Pure and simple. God has a plan. It don’t always feel right to us. Most of the time it downright hurts so bad you just wants to scream and curse His name, but that ain’t right neither. Sometimes, life just goes wrong.” He strolled off to the kitchen and turned on his radio, the same fire-and-brimstone preacher shouting out salvation into the night.

I didn’t find God that night, but I felt Luke’s words were as close as I was going to get. I said goodnight and went home.

The next day, Junior and I were ready to start back at the beginning. Junior would find Paul, I would go to Seven’s to smack any and all remaining information out of him.

When I got to Seven’s, I found an unlocked door and the apartment stripped to the walls. Seven had skipped.

I was back at The Cellar when Junior called my cell phone.

“What’s up?”

“I’m in Harvard Square. I haven’t found Paul yet, but some of the kids told me he was around. I’m gonna wait another hour to see if he turns up. And Boo?”

“Yeah?”

“A couple kids asked me if I was you.”

“What? Why?”

“They said Paul has been looking for you the last couple days and told the other kids to look out for you.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I’ll catch you in an hour.”

I sat in the office and finished my pack of smokes, waiting for the phone to ring. When it didn’t and the nic fits started, I decided to check in downstairs with Audrey.

Audrey smiled when I walked in, but her eyes never left her solitaire game laid out on the bar. “What’s up, Willie?”

“Have there been any kids coming in?”

Audrey’s attention lifted from the cards, her smile turned to indignation. “You know me better than that, Boo. I card everyone who walks in that door.”

“No, no. Have there been any kids coming in and asking for me? Skinny white kid? About fourteen? Dredlocks? Maybe smelled of weed?”

“Oh, yeah. Kid came in yesterday looking for you.”

“Did he say where I could reach him?”

“No, I told him to beat it.” Audrey winced. “I thought he was some kid dropping your name so I wouldn’t ID him. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”

“It’s okay, but listen-if he comes back, hold him here and call me right away.” I scribbled the cell number on a bar napkin.

Junior came walking in as I was heading out.

“You find Paul?” I asked.

“Not yet. Some new scrubs hit the Square and said he was gone for the night. I’ll run by tomorrow.”

“He was looking for me here, too.”

“What the hell for?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Then it hit both of us.

“You don’t think he was at-”

“Maybe he was at-” Junior said simultaneously.

Neither of us finished our sentence. We both knew the last words were going to be “Dutch House.”

Junior shook his head. “Are we getting paranoid, Boo?”

“Even paranoid people have real enemies.”

“Where to now?”

“I was going to head over to Derek’s. See if he’s got a list of buyers.”

Junior was hurt. “You wouldn’t have gone back there without me, would ya?”

“Wouldn’t consider it.”

Derek’s apartment had a new door and new molding. I knocked hard, figuring it would make a nice change of pace from kicking in the door on his face. “Derek. Open up!” Considering our last visit, we still flanked the door. Just in case Derek had armed himself and would choose to shoot first, ask later.

“We’re not gonna kick your ass this time. Scout’s honor,” Junior yelled. Since Junior wasn’t ever a scout, the promise wasn’t worth shit.

I leaned over and pressed my ear against the unfinished wood. Nothing. “It’s quiet in there. Maybe he’s not home,” I whispered.

“ Too quiet,” Junior responded, wiggling his fingers at me like a vaudevillian hypnotist.

I tried the knob anyway. It was locked, but the new door didn’t have a deadbolt installed yet. Junior took out his laminated Blockbuster card and slipped it in the poorly fit space between the door and molding. With a flick of the wrist, Junior popped the lock.

“That was easy,” I said.

“ Too easy,” Junior said, wiggling his fingers in my face. I smacked his hands away.

The room was silent, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and dirty laundry. The plasma television sat shattered in one corner of the room, a number of smashed Wild Turkey bottles on the floor. The sink was full of dirty dishes, a cluster of flies buzzing over them.

“Jeez,” Junior said, pinching his nostrils. “Looks like he and Sid been trading housekeeping tips.”

I lifted my chin toward a closed door. Quietly as we could, we stepped over the glass and debris to the bedroom. I turned the knob and slowly pushed open the door. The hinges creaked like in an old Hammer film, sending chills down my back.

Derek sat on the edge of his mattress in a pair of dirty boxer shorts. Another half-full bottle of Wild Turkey was in his hand. He looked up woozily as we stood there.

“Wazzup?” he asked, like we were expected company. “You guys here to finish the job? You guys gonna kill me now?” He burped a wet one and scratched his privates. His face was swollen, splotched with purple bruises, his chest still sporting an angry red burn mark from Junior’s stun gun.

“We’re not here to kill you, Derek,” I said softly. “We just want some information.”

He swiveled his head back at us. “You can kill me-you know? I wouldn’t mind. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care no more.” He trailed off as he put the bottle back to his lips. Most of the slug dribbled down his concave chest, into his boxers.

I pulled the bottle out of his hand. “Hey!”

“Hey!” he protested back.

“Who buys the movies you make, Derek?”

He blinked his glazed eyes at me and shrugged. “I dunno. Buncha people.” He reached for the bourbon. I pulled it back. He was off by a foot but snapped his fingers like he’d just missed.

“I want names. We’re going to get the DVDs you sold. We’re going to get rid of them.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him our agenda, but I felt he might care.